


Still Here

by theonsfavouritetoy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gift, Lots of Sex, M/M, kinda pwp i guess, lots of Theon angsting, lots of fluff, mentions of past abuse and non-con, past season 8 in a very alternative universe, sexual re-awakening in a way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 01:25:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19162975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy
Summary: “You’re still here,” Jon says, and with a quick pull he’s dragged Theon against him as if he weighs nothing, Jon’s arms strong and firm, his hair soft under Theon’s cheek. “That’s a lot more than nothing.”





	Still Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Attaining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Attaining/gifts).



> Ahem. Hello^^'
> 
> So, this actually started out as a little piece for a vague fix-it idea I had before Season 8, knowing all too well those fuckers are going to kill Theon. But then Season 8 came and yeah, we all know how that went down. And the fix-it suddenly turned into a Massive Epic Sequel (which I will start on as soon as my current WIP is finished) and the little piece didn't fit anymore. 
> 
> I thought of just discarding it, but then had a chat with the lovely, talented @Attaining and I promised to make it into a ficlet. 
> 
> And then it grew. And grew. And _grew_... got longer and longer and ended up this pure self-indulgent, long 'Theon-rediscovers-his-sexuality' thing. 
> 
> I am past being ashamed. Those two boys deserve happiness and since we are in my universe where it's essential for them to be happy _together_...
> 
> Here we go.

Theon’s gaze eagerly wanders over the newly exposed terrain that is now his to explore. Jon’s eyes are closed, his face relaxed and soft, despite the harsh lines carved into it. Theon knows it so well, the only thing of Jon he knows so well. But now he will learn more. 

He lets his hand glide over Jon’s chest, following the line of the chest bone, fingertip describing a circle around a tiny brown nipple. It’s fascinating to watch how it stiffens. Does Jon like being touched there? Theon always did.

For now he continues on his path, outlining the ribs all too close under the skin, the flats of Jon’s stomach, his small round belly button. He carefully avoids the many scars from old stab wounds. Maybe they still hurt. Some of Theon’s do, on some days. 

He strokes his palm over the almost invisible fuzz of hair leading lower, smiling to himself when it makes Jon gasp and jerk. His prick, humble and soft, nestled into a patch of black curls, starts to fill with blood and Theon quickly looks away. This loss still hurts, too. 

He takes one of Jon’s hands, carefully cataloging the feel of his calloused palm, the blunt, short nails, neatly trimmed. It’s the hand with the burn scars, they should look ugly but Theon doesn't think they are. They’re so much part of Jon, this Jon. Strong fingers, and Theon admires every one of them. They’re not as long and elegant as Theon’s had been, but they are whole. 

He brings Jon’s hand to his face, nestling his cheek into his palm. Jon’s eyes fly open, dark and warm. His hand moves out of Theon’s grasp, actively touching him now, stroking his hair back. 

“Don’t stop,” he says. 

Theon knows where Jon really wants to be touched. He remembers it dimly, how good everything felt and still he’d be impatient to finally be touched there. Only there, until he spilled his seed. This is gone entirely. No burning, pulsing need, no rush to finishing. Now every part of his body is susceptible to touch. 

Jon blinks languidly, then rolls over onto his stomach so of a sudden Theon starts. Taking a deep breath he moves his hands to Jon’s back, dragging his palm down the tiny knobs of his spine, not visible but perceptible enough. Jon is too thin. He’s still beautiful. His shoulders are still broad, and Theon’s hands roam over them, eager to get to know every inch of skin. 

Jon’s buttocks are round and firm, as white as fresh milk. Beautiful, and Theon can’t help the harsh pang of regret that he cannot do what he would’ve done, had his fate been a different one. But he can stroke them, knead them with the heels of his palms, can make Jon writhe, turn his skin to gooseflesh. 

“I did wonder sometimes,” Jon murmurs, face buried into his arms, “back then. How it would feel to be one of your wenches, how it would feel to be the subject of your attention. How it would feel to…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Theon swallows back a bitter taste in his throat. He would’ve fucked Jon, would have opened him up and slid his prick between those tempting cheeks, would have made him beg for more. Impossible. Now it is Theon who’ll have to be on the receiving end, should he ever be able to bear the thought of Jon seeing him like he is now.

“Did you ever think of it?” Jon asks. 

Not really. He hadn’t paid Jon Snow the bastard much attention, only ever the butt of one of Theon’s many japes, otherwise nothing but a nuisance to interfere with his and Robb’s time. But he did think him pretty. Maybe there had been drunk moments… Had Jon come to him, had Jon asked him for it, aye, he wouldn’t have hesitated a second. So it’s not a lie when Theon speaks. 

“Maybe. I wouldn’t have rejected you.”

“You’d have fucked me and laughed at me later,” Jon states, and it’s too true to argue with. “Do you think about it now?”

Theon exhales carefully. How can he explain this? He doesn’t understand it himself. He sits back, trying to find the right words, words that won’t disappoint Jon, words that won’t disgust him, or make him put a stop to all of this. 

“Not like…” Theon starts, then pauses, taking a deep breath. Jon turns back around, nodding at Theon encouragingly. “I don’t think about it like this. I want to touch you,” he hurries to say when Jon’s brows gather. “I long for your touch every moment I’m awake. I need you like I need air in my lungs. You make me feel warm.”

He flinches when Jon takes his hand unexpectedly, gently rubbing the place where his pinky should be. “Like this?” Jon asks, and Theon nods. 

“Aye. Every touch is different than they used to be. More intense. As if I’m… it’s only you, though. Only when you do it.”

“You say you want me to touch you, yet you don’t let me see you.” Jon sighs, bending down to place a kiss on Theon’s palm. It sends a tingling sensation through him, pleasant and vague. “You say you want to do things… to me.” Jon blushes. “Do you even want that? Or is it just what you think I want?”

“I want it because you want it,” Theon starts, then groans when he sees the look on Jon’s face. “Oh, not… I do want it! I cannot explain… it’s a different want. I want to be wanting. It’s just… not centered anymore. I want to be good for you. I  _ need _ to be good for you. Please, Jon.”

He holds his breath as Jon stays silent, mouth a tight line, eyes dark and unreadable.  _ Please say yes, please say yes, please let me have that part of me back, please give me that one thing I can give you… _ Theon bites down on his cheek, ignoring the sharp pain it causes. 

“Alright,” Jon says at length, and Theon’s heart takes a leap. “Under one condition. He looks up, determined and stern. “Eye for an eye, Theon. You will not service me like a pleasure slave. You want to make me feel good - and I demand the same right in return.”

“Jon, it’s no use,” Theon whispers, tears welling up in his eyes. “There’s nothing left. Nothing will make me… it’s not like for you.” He inhales a shuddery breath. “If you let me touch you it’s enough. There’s nothing else left.”

“You’re still here,” Jon says, and with a quick pull he’s dragged Theon against him as if he weighs nothing, Jon’s arms strong and firm, his hair soft under Theon’s cheek. “That’s a lot more than nothing.”

Theon closes his eyes, he loves this, being so close, being able to cling to Jon and rely on his strength. It’s warm and safe. He shifts a little to get more comfortable in Jon’s lap - Theon’s back gets rigid as he feels the hardness there, the only thing separating it from him his breeches. 

It feels strange, hot and big. Scary, a little. He mustn’t be scared, Theon reminds himself. This is Jon. Jon wouldn’t hurt him. Not like this. Swallowing hard, Theon moves his hips a tiny fraction. It jerks beneath him, Jon gasps, his grip on Theon’s waist tightens and Theon whimpers. 

“Don’t go away, please don’t go away,” he wails as Jon immediately loosens his hold and starts to shove Theon back, he clings to him with all his might. “I’m alright, I promise, I just…”

“Did he…” Jon jerks his head to the side, struggling for breath. He’s trembling, trying to stay calm but failing. The hardness beneath Theon shrinks, softens, wilts away. 

“No,” Theon lies without hesitation, “not like that.”

It’s only a half lie, really. It had only happened that one time, shortly after the thing. The final step necessary for the transformation, the ma– Ramsay had said, the last act to make him perfect. He hadn’t touched him thus afterwards. He’d done other things. 

It had been Little Walder who’d done it most of the time, away from the – from Ramsay, maybe even without his permission, Theon had never found out. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is to convince Jon that Theon does want this, that he’s not afraid. A little lie won’t hurt. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly, “I shouldn’t have talked of it.”

He tilts his head up to kiss Theon’s mouth, warm and soft and unobtrusive like he always does. And as always Theon keeps his mouth firmly closed, keeping the disgusting insides out of Jon’s reach. He wishes it were otherwise, wishes he could taste Jon, let him in. Jon doesn’t move away, he lingers, full lips so soft on Theon’s, moving just a tiny bit. 

It’s sweet, and when Jon’s tongue starts tracing Theon’s lips he nearly forgets about everything, only remembering in the last moment to guard his broken teeth, the hideous sight. Jon groans against Theon’s mouth, hands pressing into the small of his back to get him closer. 

“I need…” he whispers, and, “please.”

For a moment Theon wants to shake his head, but then he remembers his own words, remembers that this is what he wants. Giving Jon what he needs. He steels himself against the probable rejection and parts his lips, just one tiny bit, enough to let Jon close his mouth around the lower lip, he sucks it gently, and a bolt of heat rushes down Theon’s spine. 

The sweet kisses continue, soft and delicious, it’s so much better than Theon had thought it would be, yet Jon makes no move for anything more, despite being fully hard again. Theon can feel him, and now he’s not scared. He can do this. He wants this. But when he tries to move his hips, Jon stops kissing him. 

“No,” he says, his voice so tender Theon’s chest tightens. “Not tonight. Another time. Just this for now.”

And with that he kisses Theon once more. 

***

Jon keeps his promise. They share Theon’s chambers, openly, as if Jon doesn’t care what people say about the former King in the North and the Turncloak. Theon doesn’t care. He has Jon. Every night he has Jon next to him, naked and warm and Theon’s. Nothing much has happened, Jon still refuses to let Theon do anything but touch him with light strokes. 

They kiss. They kiss a lot, Jon seems to need it so much, and Theon lets him. At least he’s stopped worrying about his mouth. In an incredibly painful hour Maester Wolkan had removed some of the broken teeth, the ones that had been sharp and jagged and dangerous. It had hurt like all seven hells, but it had been worth it. The first time Theon had opened his mouth to let Jon’s tongue in… Jon had moaned so desperately against him, so hungry for it. 

He seems hungry now, tired but still awake when Theon crawls between the furs and into Jon’s arms and is immediately pulled against his chest and into a long kiss. 

“Can’t get enough of this,” Jon mumbles before he lets his tongue glide into Theon’s mouth. 

It’s overwhelming, being plundered like that, and Theon only notices what Jon’s hands are doing when his tunic falls apart at the neck and Jon bends his head to suck on his collarbone, right on the ugly ridge of a knife scar. He means to move away, spare Jon the pretense of not finding it repulsing, but then Jon moans, low and desperate.

“More,” he says, voice thick and husky. “I need more. Hold still.”

And Theon does, feeling as if in trance when Jon’s fingers hook into the fabric and  _ tear _ , all the way through to the bottom, and his torso is bare before him, everything visible in the candlelight, horrible and marred. Jon doesn’t say anything, just stares, stares so long a chill runs over Theon’s skin. 

“Finally,” Jon whispers, and suddenly Theon finds himself on his back, Jon’s hand hovering over the place where Theon’s right nipple used to be. 

“Can I?” he asks, voice sorrowful, yet longing, and all Theon can do is nod. 

He doesn’t feel anything when Jon’s fingers touch the scarred tissue, and Theon’s chest tightens painfully at the look in Jon’s eyes. Sympathy. Horror. Naked want. With a groan Jon surges down and Theon starts when his mouth covers the remaining teat, suckling, licking, a graze of teeth that makes heat pool somewhere in his stomach. 

Jon’s hands are everywhere, not shying back from the dozens of marks where skin had been sliced, burned, flayed away. The heat in Theon starts to roll through his body, not centered, flowing into every limb, into his remaining fingertips and his toes, but it isn’t enough. It can never be, and Theon wants to weep at the thought of telling Jon to stop. It’s so good of him, to do this for Theon, but it isn’t enough. 

“Gods, Theon.” 

Jon’s breath huffs warmly against the skin on Theon’s belly, his tongue dips into the crater that was once his belly button, and tears come to Theon’s eyes as he prepares himself to tell Jon, tell him it is all in vain. Because despite this, he doesn't want him to stop. It’s selfish. It’s so good. 

Jon’s lips wander lower, to the waistline of Theon’s breeches. Panic rising like a storm in him Theon opens his mouth – and cries out in shock when Jon presses his face against the fabric covering his crotch, inhaling deeply. 

“You… I need… gods!!”

With a hoarse cry, muffled by soft leather, Jon stiffens, keens, goes limp. Theon doesn’t dare to utter a single word. He’s still trembling from the unexpectedness of Jon’s doing, from the suddenness of this, Jon’s release. How can he spill from… from nothing? But he did. Theon can smell it, can feel it in the heavy laziness of Jon’s hand rubbing circles into his skin. 

“Jon?” Theon asks when Jon still doesn’t move. He needs to go and get a new shirt, cover himself. “Are you…”

“M’fine,” Jon mumbles sleepily, and then, “Never hide from me again.”

Theon waits, but Jon’s breaths get deeper and after a while Theon closes his eyes, letting his hand slide into Jon’s hair. He doesn’t get up to find a new shirt. 

***

The hot water is like balm in the cold of the winter air. Theon loves it, the warmth, the solitude. He comes every day, in the morning after breakfast, when Jon has gone to see to his daily duties, when everyone in Winterfell is busy and he has the pools to himself. What he doesn’t like is the fact that he has to completely undress before sinking into the water. 

Two long moments when everything is bare and open to see for anyone who might accidentally stumble upon him. First when he steps into the pool, something he is able to do quickly by now, then the long agonizing moments when he gets out, the fingers he has left soft and clumsy from the hot water and shaking in the cold. Redressing when wet takes an eternity. 

Theon slides lower until the water is up to his ears, closing his eyes and letting himself drift along, barely touching the stone on which he is seated. He recalls the last few nights, the kisses and touches Jon had lavished all over him. Jon’s face appears in his mind, lovely and earnest, mouth open in a silent gasp as he ruts against the furs until he spills. 

He wishes he could give Jon more. But Jon’s rule is clear: If Theon wants to pleasure him with his mouth or his hands, Jon demands the same right in return. And Theon can’t let Jon touch him there. Can’t let him see. Yes, Jon isn’t visibly repulsed by his scars, he doesn’t seem to mind them at all, kissing them, touching. But what’s beneath his breeches - what isn’t - that’s a different hell completely. 

But  _ if _ he would let Jon see him, touch him… what could he even do? Theon lets his fingers wander to the stump, all that’s left of the cock that once hung there proudly. It feels stiff and swollen, like it often does when he thinks of Jon, or when Jon touches him. It’s a good feeling, but Theon lets go quickly, as always. He knows the good feeling won’t build into anything more, and he cannot stand the disappointment always following. It’s not worth it. 

Theon sighs, leaning back. He wishes Jon were here. He wishes they both were here, like they once were, young and whole and ignorant of how the world can really be. He could take Jon in his lap, spread his cheeks and push into him, making him cry out. He’d been good at it. A skilled lover. As it is now… Theon opens his eyes as he contemplates this possibility. 

He could do it for Jon. Could let Jon take him like Theon would’ve taken him if he’d known what he knows now. He shivers at the thought, recalling the pain it had caused when  _ they  _ had done it to him. At least they had always oiled themselves before taking him, surely more for their comfort than Theon’s, but it could have been worse. Still, it  _ had _ hurt. 

Jon would never hurt him, Theon knows that. And it can’t hurt every time. The boy whores… he’s fucked some, a lifetime ago, mostly when Ros had been busy with another client and all the other whores had ugly mugs and baggy cunts. The boy whores were always tight, pretty, delicate and slender. And they had enjoyed it, had always spilled. Some had begged him to take them harder. 

That one time when the ma– when Ramsay had done it… it had been horrible. Monstrous. The shame had nearly killed him. But there had been pleasure, amidst the tears and choked cries, the m– Ramsay had made sure. There had been something, something overwhelming and scary, a place deep inside him that had made him cry out in more than pain.  _ If  _ he could ever summon the courage to let Jon see - would he be able to find that place? Would that be enough?

“Here you are.”

Theon yelps at the voice in his back, hastily trying to turn around on the slippery seat. Jon is standing next to the little tree Theon always hangs his clothes on, watching him thoughtfully. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” Jon says, and Theon watches in horror as he starts to unfasten his cloak clasp, his belt, his boots. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, hands pressed against his groin desperately. “Don’t you have elsewhere to be?”

“Sansa is meeting with the lords today.” Jon shrugs out of his thick doublet, then the thinner woolen tunic beneath. “She fares better when I’m not there to distract them. Stupid old men, can’t concentrate on the Queen in the North when there’s a former king present, no matter the fact that she’s better than him at ruling.”

Theon, frozen in horror, watches Jon’s breeches hit the snowy ground, followed by his braies, leaving Jon naked. And despite his rising panic Theon cannot help but marvel at how beautiful he is, how graceful. He doesn’t have time to marvel for long. Jon shudders in the cold, and then he glides into the pool not even an arm’s length from Theon. 

“Don’t…” he mutters weakly, but too late. 

Jon is there, Jon’s arms are around him and he’s pulled to his chest, unable to resist. Theon screws his eyes closed, hides his face in the crook of Jon’s neck as his stiff form is maneuvered around and he finds himself in Jon’s lap, knees bracketing his flanks. His breath is going fast, heart fluttering in his chest as he waits for the realization to hit Jon, for the rejection when it does. 

“Theon.” Jon’s voice is calm and sure. “Theon, I  _ know _ . You don’t need to be ashamed, not with me. I know what… what happened to you.”

Yes, Jon knows. Some of it at any rate. But having an abstract idea of something is vastly different than seeing for oneself. Theon remembers clearly the first time he had seen himself afterwards. He can still feel the shock running through him, can still hear the ma– Ramsay’s satisfied chuckle. It doesn’t look quite as bad now. The scar has faded, pale instead of an angry red. The stump that was left has healed neatly, not getting inflamed like the wound on his foot. 

And yet it’s still nauseating. 

And yet Jon doesn’t flinch away. 

His cock, plumping against Theon, drags over the scar and the stump and it feels good, sparks gathering beneath his skin. Jon’s hand on the small of his back presses into him, pushing them closer together, and Theon whimpers into Jon’s shoulder as his hips start moving on their own, rubbing and sliding his groin against Jon’s length. It feels so good. 

“That’s it,” Jon murmurs, voice low and husky in Theon’s ear. “Gods, you have no idea how this feels. Open your eyes, Theon, look at me.”

Theon obeys, how could he not when Jon speaks in that low and silky voice, when his hands feel so perfect, his mouth so hot, kissing along Theon’s jaw before Jon moves his head back to look at him. He smiles.

“I love how soft your skin is.” Another lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So smooth…”

It’s true, Theon thinks vaguely as he tips his head back to give Jon access to his throat. Once Sansa had shaved off the stubble completely when helping him wash after the battle it hadn’t grown back so far. His face is beardless like a boy’s, maybe will stay that way forever, who knows. He doesn’t mind, not really, not if it is something Jon loves. 

Jon sucks hard at Theon’s neck, as if he can’t get enough of him, nibbles and licks until Theon is sure he’ll be covered in bruises and love bites come morning. He’ll have to wear a high-necked doublet to prevent everyone from seeing this. 

Jon’s thrusts against him pick up speed, his cock fat and heavy against Theon’s groin and everytime it hits what’s left of him it sends shivers through him. Jon groans, tilting Theon back and taking his nipple into his mouth and suddenly the fuzzy pleasure gathers hotly in Theon’s belly, almost like before, he presses down into Jon and Jon cries out, fingers digging into Theon’s hips as he holds him and spends. Theon wants to sob.

“I’m sorry.”

He looks up at the broken voice, into Jon’s face, and is shocked when he finds his eyes filled with tears. 

“I’m so sorry,” Jon says again, mouth pulled into a sad little pout that makes him look so much like his younger self that Theon’s heart leaps in his chest. Jon sniffles. “I wish I could do this for you. I wish I wasn’t the only one getting something from this. It feels so selfish. You’re so good for me and I…” A pained sigh. “I can give you nothing in return.”

“But you do,” Theon says, astonished. “I told you how much I need to touch you, didn’t I? Jon, I long for you, your kisses, your touch, every moment that I don’t have them. And…” He breaks off, not knowing how to put it into words. “I do feel good. Not like you, but it feels… I do feel something.”

“Not enough,” Jon says, devastated, and Theon leans in to kiss his sad mouth. 

“You could fuck me,” he hears himself say. 

Jon goes rigid in Theon’s arms, his soft cock twitching. Theon stares back at him, shocked by what he just said. He can’t – what if Jon doesn’t want it? He’d have to see then, he’d have to look at what Theon is – what if it isn’t good? What if it hurts, what then? Theon doesn’t know if he can cover up pain like this, even for Jon. What if it hurts and Jon thinks it’s his fault and blames himself and never touches Theon again?

“Theon…” Jon bites his lip, blushes. “I would… Are you’re sure?”

No, Theon wants to say, no he’s not sure. It could go so wrong.

“Yes,” he says.

Jon takes a deep breath, seeming to quarrel with himself. “Alright. But only if you fuck me first.”

***

Theon is nervous. So much so he’s been unable to eat all day, his stomach a tightly knotted ache. What it he does it wrong? What if he hurts Jon? 

“How?” he’d asked, unable to believe what he’d heard. How could Jon still talk like… maybe, Theon had thought, maybe he needed to be blunt for once. “Jon, I don’t have a cock.”

Jon had shrugged, eyes shadowed. “You have fingers. I don’t see the problem.”

And now here Theon is, too scared of what’s to come to enter their chamber. It takes him nearly an hour, standing before the closed door and trying to get his heartbeat under control. What helps is the thought that it’s Jon in there. Sweet, gentle Jon. Jon wouldn’t punish him if he does it wrong. Jon would be kind. With a last, deep breath Theon pushes the door open. 

Jon is asleep. He’s sprawled across the furs, not a single thread covering his naked body, and something like tentative arousal creeps into Theon’s veins at the sight of Jon’s bare arse, milk-white buttocks so round and vulnerable. Jon trusts him so much. With a soft thud Theon pushes the door shut, locking it with the heavy bolt to make sure no one will disturb them. 

He unfastens his cloak and slips out of the doublet. In tunic and breeches he crawls unto the bed. Jon doesn’t wake up when Theon threads his fingers in the curls on his nape, he shifts a little and… Theon swallows. Jon spreads his legs, one knee drawn up as he lays on his belly, head on his arms. He looks so lovely, so peaceful, it feels like a sin to disturb that peace. And yet Theon can’t stop himself. 

He lets his hand glide down Jon’s back, gently pressing the heel into the small of his back. Jon hums, clearly reluctant to wake up, but when Theon leans forward to kiss his shoulder he blinks, turning around and drawing Theon down against his mouth. 

“Hello,” he mumbles, not quite awake yet. “I’ve waited for you.”

“I know.” 

Theon lets Jon draw him onto his chest, legs stretching out along Jon’s body. Theon enjoys it so much, the heat burning through his clothes, the warm smell of Jon, the way they’re pressed together tightly. He can feel Jon’s cock stirring, wondering again what it is that arouses Jon so. Nothing about Theon is arousing, and yet Jon always reacts as if the most beautiful maiden has come into his bed. 

“Did you bring it?” Jon asks between kisses. 

Theon’s hand wanders to his pocket, to the little bottle of oil Jon asked him to bring from the kitchens. It smells vaguely of something green. Theon sits back up onto his knees, pulling it out and setting it between them. 

“Are you really sure about this?” he asks quietly. 

“I am. I want you to fuck me. Wanted it for… quite a long time now.” Jon crooks a half smile before his face gets serious again. But I need to ask something else of you first.”

“Whatever you want,” Theon says quickly, anything to delay the moment he’ll disappoint Jon. “I’ll do anything.”

“Good,” Jon says. “Take off your clothes.”

Theon obeys, his tunic hitting the floor with a soft rustle. This is familiar terrain. Whatever Jon gets out of seeing him like this Theon doesn’t know. But that’s alright. Jon knows. He waits for him to do something, kiss him, touch him, but Jon just looks him in the eye, one eyebrow raised and a stern Stark expression on his face. 

“What,” Theon says, confused. 

“All of it. No more barriers, Theon.”

Anything, he’d said, he’d do anything. A wild shiver runs down Theon’s spine as he slowly reaches down. His fingers are stiff, missing the index finger on his left hand complicating the process of unlacing, even more so when he’s shaking like he does now. And then Jon’s hands are there, slowly pulling apart one knot after the other until the last one is undone. 

Neither of them moves for a long time. It’s Jon who does first, dragging the knuckles of his hand down Theon’s chest, across his stomach, lower. Theon shudders, gasps, closes his eyes as he lets Jon take him into his arms and bed him into the furs. He doesn’t open them when the breeches are pulled down, when there’s nothing but air between him and Jon’s gaze. He can feel it burning on his skin. 

The first tentative touch has Theon’s breath go out of him in a gush. Jon’s calloused palm touches him so softly he hardly feels it, gently ghosting over his groin, along the scar. A thumb circles the stump, careful, gentle. Theon tries to catalogue how it feels, it doesn’t hurt but he’s not sure what it does. The touches stop. Theon presses his eyes shut tightly when nothing else happens. Jon must have understood that this is really all that’s left, that there’s nothing he can do. 

And then Theon nearly jerks off the bed with a startled shout when something hot and wet closes around it, when a nimble tongue laps at him. And this time there is something, a tugging in his belly, and Theon groans in surprise when the tongue swipes down the scar and below, pressing against him in a way that makes heat rise and ebb in him. But it is nothing compared to what follows, to Jon’s mouth doing things to him he wouldn’t ever have dreamed of. He licks at him, sucks, hands slung around Theon’s thighs in an iron grip as he shoves his tongue past the barrier and  _ inside. _

Theon gasps, writhes, doesn’t know if he wants it to stop or if he wants more. It feels so peculiar, so unlike anything else he’s felt before. But it also feels good, a strange kind of good that is slowly building in him. He’s sweating, making inarticulate noises, tossing his head from side to side, arching into Jon. He needs…  _ something…  _ needs… 

“More,” he pants, desperately keening against Jon’s mouth, “please give me  _ more!!” _

He can feel Jon’s smile against his skin before he pulls back and Theon wants to whine in protest. But the next moment Jon is back and something slick and harder than a tongue is rubbing circles across his backside. Theon can’t hold his curiosity back any longer, tilting his head and trying to see what Jon is doing. Jon looks up when he feels his gaze, uncertain. 

“Is that… is it okay? I want to try something, if you..?”

Theon nods, and then gasps when Jon slowly inserts a finger into him. It feels odd, not bad though, it definitely doesn’t hurt like a prick and – Theon nearly arches off the bed when intense pleasure floods his whole body as Jon’s finger touches  _ something _ , unlike the pleasure he used to know but somehow more intense, or maybe just because it’s everywhere in him. 

“More?” Jon asks, voice rough and thick, and Theon nods frantically, already bearing down on Jon’s finger. 

Then there’s two, two fingers dipping into him and that alone suddenly feels pleasurable, the slick, smooth glide, and Theon remembers how good it felt to be on the other side, having his fingers in a warm cunt or a tight ass, and it makes sense, it feels so… Jon presses up, massaging that magical spot with two fingers until Theon thinks his body can’t take it anymore, it’s too much, too good…

Jon bends his head, lapping around where his fingers drill into Theon, every thrust nudging that spot, and then he puts his mouth on what’s left of Theon’s cock and suddenly the world shatters like ice and there’s a scream somewhere, high-pitched and shrill and Theon’s heart takes off in his chest as his body goes limp in Jon’s arms. 

Soft lips on his make him come back to reality, to Jon, who’s looking at him with something like worry. Theon smiles, meaning to reach up and brush a stray curl behind Jon’s ear, but surprisingly his hand feels too heavy and he lets it slump back. 

“I think I had… I think I did…”

“Aye,” Jon says, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles down on Theon. “I could taste it on my tongue, something clear and liquid.” He sighs. “You scared me. You screamed so loud I expected the guards to come running any moment.”

“Sorry,” Theon mumbles, blinking as his eyelids get heavier and heavier. “So good. ‘M tired.”

“Then sleep. And when you’re awake you will fuck me like I did to you just now.”

“Aye,” Theon mutters, eyes closing. He burrows against Jon’s chest, feeling warm and sated and better than he felt in years. “And I get to suck your cock.”

“What?” Jon asks after a pause, sounding baffled.

“Eye for an eye. You sucked me, I demand the same right in return.”

“Sneaky prick, throwing my own words back at me like that.” Jon snorts, threading a hand in Theon’s hair. “Theon?”

“Ssh, he’s sleeping. What is it, Snow?”

“Nothing. Sleep.”

But Theon hears him whisper it, softly, almost part of his dream. And I you, he thinks, smiling when he feels Jon kiss his forehead, and drifts off.    
  


**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my fuel... *grabby hands* 
> 
> ;-*


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